


Research and Personal Development

by notoneforreality



Series: R&D (Relationships and Dynamics) [1]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Alexithymia, Autistic Character, Bondlock, British Sign Language, F/F, If You Squint - Freeform, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, Non-Verbal, Q (James Bond) is a Holmes, Q doesn't know how to date, Q is Autistic, Q-Branch Minions, R is a good friend, References to Canon-Typical Violence, Spoon Theory (referenced), Stimming, autistic traits, but not explicit because I'm bad at writing action scenes, this will be explored more later
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-27
Updated: 2020-05-27
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:27:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24387454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notoneforreality/pseuds/notoneforreality
Summary: Q would like his equipment back in one piece. R has some suggestions, and Bond might be amenable to some bargaining.In which Bond slowly infiltrates Q-Branch and Q doesn't understand why Bond makes his internal organs do stupid things.
Relationships: James Bond/Q, R/Original Female Character
Series: R&D (Relationships and Dynamics) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1790158
Comments: 12
Kudos: 272





	Research and Personal Development

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote the entirety of this series by accident after reading 150+ fics of 00Q in a week, despite not being an active part of the fandom ever before. This was probably the hardest of all of them to write, but I like how it's turned out, so I hope you enjoy, too. And stay tuned for the rest, of course.
> 
> Please Don't Ask Me About Timelines
> 
> (Italian translated by me, apologies for any inaccuracies.)

Just once, Q would appreciate it if all his kit returned. Preferably in one piece, but he’ll take what he can get. He and his minions work very hard on producing all sorts of tricksy gadgets for the double-ohs, and knowing they’d last about twelve minutes in the field, no matter what finagling they did to make them near-indestructible, could be disheartening. The only thing that keeps him from despairing, sometimes, is the fact that most of the gadgets die whilst keeping their agents alive, which, really, is what they’re designed to do.

Still, Q can’t help eyeing Agent Bond a little mournfully, when he returns from Akureyri with only a broken belt.

“I’m going to send you out with two feet of parcel twine and an empty fountain pen, next time,” Q says. Bond’s lips tilt up on one side, and Q narrows his eyes. “It won’t so much as sign your name, let alone explode.”

“You take all the fun out of things,” Bond says, but he’s still smiling. 

Q presses his lips together. “That belt was supposed to be near-unbreakable, and I recall you being sent out with rather more equipment than this.” He shifts his weight onto one leg so he can shake the other foot, trying to unsettle the odd feeling that has settled somewhere where his stomach actually is, instead of in his intestines, the way people usually mean. 

It’s been a year since the sensation started cropping up, and he still hasn’t worked out what it is other than cause by Bond’s presence, which is the only common variable he can pinpoint.

Agent Bond’s smile doesn’t dim, unrepentant. “I got it caught in the ski lift mechanisms. You know how it is.”

“I don’t,” Q says. 

He gave up trying to intimidate Bond into proper kit management several months ago. He’s staying with the threats, for now, until he works out a better tactic. Moneypenny keeps telling him to bribe Bond, but he hasn’t come up with anything worth bargaining, yet.

_(Two months ago, when R was drunk and Q was watching over his glass of lemonade, laughing at her, she said he should offer himself as a carrot. It had taken an hour of her talking in circles to explain that she didn’t mean literally in orange and green, but as an incentive. Q was so delighted at how much the alcohol was affecting her, that he hadn’t even been embarrassed about not understanding the idiom._

_“Or,” she said, teeth glinting in a wicked smile, leering at him, “you could offer him a stick.”_

_Even Q couldn’t miss the euphemism in that. He choked on the last of his lemonade, ordered a water to cool his burning face, and changed the subject.)_

Q runs his hands and his eyes over the belt, examining the steel core of it, and wincing at the damage. He’s so absorbed by the mutilation of a new tool he’d been quite proud of, he almost misses the faint tap of the gun as Bond gently places it on the desk.

He stares at the gun, and then at Bond’s mouth, where the smile has tipped closer to a smirk.

“You’re either very late for Christmas, or a little early for my birthday,” Q says, setting the belt down in order to snatch up the gun and scrutinize it. He feels his eyebrows leap up to his hairline, and his voice turns wondering. “There’s hardly any damage to this at all.”

“Recompense for the earpiece.”

And Bond is gone before Q has the chance to even start.

* * *

Q doesn’t, of course, send Agent Bond out with two feet of parcel twince and an empty fountain pen, next time. He tells himself that it’s only because Bond managed to return the gun almost entirely unharmed, even if he had left Q to spend twelve hours coming up with a better earpiece design that Bond couldn’t crush underfoot.

The kit that Bond takes to Sorrento contains his Walther, the new and improved earpiece, and a set of cufflinks: one of them a distress signal, and the other an explosive.

“Left is for location, and destra is for detonate,” Q tells Bond, who’s mouth ticks up.[1]

“You’ve been practising your Italian.”

“I hope you have,” Q says, instead of telling Bond that he used to want to live in Italy, that he started learning Italian when he was eleven. “Your flight is tomorrow morning at eleven hundred, and I’ll be in your ear when you’re through Italian customs.”

“Grazie mille.” Bond clips the kit case closed and tucks it under his arm. “I suppose we better get some sleep, before then.”

“You should. I have other things to see to.” Like the rest of Q-Branch, who are working on a transmitter that Double-oh Four can take into the the Jean-Bernard system without having to worry about losing signal.

Bond’s head tilts, but he leaves without saying another word.

Q stays for another three hours, because the internal mechanisms had caught fire just as he was making to leave after two, and then manages four hours of sleep, before he’s back in the office and waiting for Bond’s voice to sound in his ear.

“So, where am I going?” Bond says, just before fourteen hundred, English time.

“Afternoon, Double-oh Seven. Left after the rentals, and down to the car park. There’ll be someone waiting for you.” He pulls up a feed from Naples International and watches. 

When Bond finds the car, a grin spreads across his face. “What was it you said the other week?” He slides his hand over the bonnet of the Rapide AMR. “‘Either very late for Christmas, or a little early for my birthday?’”

“Your birthday’s in November.” Q grins. “We’ve put you up in the same hotel as Esposito, so it’s in the SatNav already. You’ve got about an hour and a half to Sorrento.”

The hour and a half pass quickly enough, with Rai filtering through Q’s earpiece from the car radio. He spends the time making notes on a few blueprints in his inbox, and only has to switch channels for three minutes to talk Double-oh Two through a particularly difficult safe. Double-oh Two asks for the whereabouts of his usual minion and Q tells him not to call them that.

_(The minions had received their name after a work party at which there had been an intense discussion about the film Megamind, with much indignation at the lack of recognition it had received. At Q’s birthday party, two weeks later, he had been presented with a watch modelled on the device Megamind used to disguise himself, along with Bernard’s blue turtleneck and brown blazer._

_Q had replied with, “Thank you, Minion,” to Sam Locke, who had presented the gift, and then been accused of favouritism. Before long, the whole department were his Minions. People outside the department were only allowed to use the term with express permission, which was certainly never granted if it was even hinted that the user meant the irritating creatures from Despicable Me._

_Double-oh Two had ruined his chance when he spent an hour asking Jenna if she’d had a ‘bapple’ for lunch.)_

While Bond checks into the Grand Hotel Flora, Q stands up from his own desk and strides out of his office to the main bank of screens. R calls it the war table, and Q ends up directing from behind it more often than not.

One of the minions has already put the camera feeds from the hotel lobby up on the main screen, and Q scans them all, before cycling through footage from various other parts of the hotel.

“Grazie, bella,” Bond says, and the receptionist flutters. “Posso avere aiuto trovare la mia camera?”[2]

“Certo,” she says, blushing dark. “Seguimi.”[3]

Bond smiles winningly at her and winks, but as soon as she has her back to him, he drops the front and assess the room, following her without watching where they’re going.

“You’re going to get lost, if you don’t pay attention.” Q says.

“Better than getting shot because I haven’t paid attention,” Bond says, eye-line flickering up to the nearest camera.

“Che cosa?” The receptionist stops and half turns around.The receptionist stops and half turns around.[4]

Bond shoots his smile at her again, and Q can see her relax even before he says, “Niente.”[5]

* * *

Nothing particularly interesting happens for the first two days. Q manages to make it home for two nights in a row — a feat almost unheard of when he’s running an op — and he’s just managed to actually go and get his own tea for once, when Bond makes contact with Matteo Esposito.

“Buongiorno, signore.” Bond slides into the chair next to Eposito and orders a martini, shaken not stirred. Q snorts, and Bond directs a glare at the security camera watching the till. He can’t say anything to Q, not with Esposito right next to him, so he talks to the target, instead. “Come stai?”[6]

* * *

Esposito gives him a dubious look, mouth tilting down. The barman sets Bond’s drink in front of him, and Bond thanks him, bringing the glass to his lips, before hesitating. 

He tips his head at Esposito’s empty glass. “Che cosa stai bevendo?”[7]

“Il whisky, per favore,” Esposito says. His voice scratches, like he’s already had more than a few. He has. Q’s had eyes on him at the bar in the lobby for the past two hours.[8]

“Un whisky per il signore.” Bond motions to the bartender, who shrugs and finds the bottle from which he’s already served Esposito.[9]

“Pretty sure that guy shouldn’t be serving him.” R crosses her arms. “He looks like he’s going to fall off the stool if he has much more. Are you sure this is the one we’re looking for?”

“Yes, he’s just a way in. He’s supposed to be meeting the Sirena ring at some point on his business trip.”

“Ah,” R says, like she understands something. “So he’s drinking because he’s scared.”

Q frowns at her, and then at Esposito on the screen. Esposito cradles his new drink with both hands, staring at the bar, answering Bond’s conversation with monosyllables. Q looks at R again, who nods a fist.

“He’s scared,” Q tells Bond. Bond’s head tips forward in the shade of a nod.

“Non é niente migliore di coraggio liquido,” Bond says, knocking back the rest of his drink and gesturing for another. “Boh, le donne sono….” He trails off and waves his hand in the air.[10]

This, more than anything else Bond has says, gets Esposito’s attention.

“Ho un incontro di lavoro, domani,” Esposito says, his voice commiserating. “Se non andasse bene….”[11]

Like Bond, he trails off. 

Q taps his fingers against his collar bone, as Bond keeps talking to Esposito. The man is a low-level drug runner, trying to impress the Sirena drugs ring that operates around the Bay of Naples, and it’s not hard to get him talking.

By the time Bond half-carries Esposito back to his room, Q has scouted out the place of the meeting happening tomorrow at sixteen-hundred local time, and Bond is complaining in Italian about how much he knows about Esposito’s tragic relationship with his ex-wife and daughter.

“Are you drunk, Double-oh Seven?” Q asks, laughing, when Bond is on his way back to his own room.

Bond waits until the door is locked behind him to speak in English. “No. Why do you think I take my drink shaken rather than stirred?”

Q blinks. Beside him, R makes another sound of dawning comprehension. “I don’t know. I don’t know much about alcohol beyond the lethal BAC levels.”

“Don’t you drink?”

“Lemonade and Coca-Cola.”

“Huh.” Bond isn’t looking at the camera, even though he must know that Q is watching. “Shaking the drink breaks the ice up, waters it down. Means I can drink whilst staying some degree of sober on the job.”

“Huh,” Q echoes. 

There’s a long, drawn out pause, the sort Q imagines people call ‘silent’, when they can’t hear the static through the comms, the fans from the server unit, the buzz of the screens in front of him, the faint noise of the air con in Bond’s hotel room.

“You’d better get some sleep. Things should get interesting tomorrow.”

Bond doesn’t move, staring up at his ceiling. “Goodnight, Q.”

Q hesitates a moment, the sensation at the bottom of his ribcage fierce. “Goodnight, Double-oh Seven.”

He minimises the feed from inside the room, and steps back from the table.

“You should go home, too,” R says. “Sleep. We’ll keep an eye on this.” 

Home should be safe enough, with nothing set to go down until tomorrow afternoon, but there are pins and needles in Q’s hands, and he hums instead of answering. Getting the information out of Esposito was too easy. He’s only a bottom-feeder trying to get in with the sharks, yes, but Q’s instincts fizz in his wrists, and he bites his lips.

He naps on the couch in his office, instead. He’s woken at two in the morning by shouts in the earpiece he forgot to take out, and is in front of the war table in a heartbeat, barking orders at minions and Bond.

They lose contact. 

“Oh shit,” Q says. “Shit, shit, shit.”

* * *

After a week, R drives Q home herself, and all but locks him into his bedroom. 

He slept six hours the third night, when Sam swapped his earl grey out for chamomile, but he’s only managed about an hour every night besides that. Every part of his body aches with exhaustion from the lack of sleep, but also from the way every part of him feels wound far too tight. He’s already dissociated three times, and the only reason to be grateful that Bond is gone is because dissociating whilst handling him would have been a nightmare. Of course, the fact that Bond is gone is the reason Q has been floating so much, so any gratitude is null and void.

R says he’s vibrating. She has to help him up the stairs, because the pins and needles have eaten half his legs, as well as his arms, now, and drops him into bed without ceremony.

“Sleep.” She jabs a finger at him. “He’s a bloody cockroach; he’ll turn up in a couple of days with half his gun missing and a shrug. In the meantime, you are going to sleep and let your perfectly competent coworkers and staff deal with whatever mess he’s left behind in Italy.

Q tries to argue, but she throws his phone at him. A YouTube video he’s watched a thousand times is already playing, and he only manages enough effort to set it on the bedside table before he’s asleep.

He wakes up with Ada curled up on his back, and the weight is almost enough to press Q back into his body. When he reaches out a hand, however, Charles is missing from his customary place on the other pillow.

It takes a lot of effort to prop himself up, especially with Ada protesting until she manages to climb to Q’s shoulders. Even though the pins and needles have gone, he still feels brittle and empty. It’s a wonder he hasn’t had a meltdown or a shutdown already, and his body is making its unhappiness known.

Q opens his mouth to call Charles, and gasps instead, breathless. No words today, then, unless he has to go in to work. He shouldn’t have to, because R can handle things, and she might kill him if he tries to get on a bus like this, but if anything goes worse with Agent Bond’s mission, he’s not going to sit around at home and wait.

There’s no answering patter of claws on hardwood, when Q whistles. He sighs and Q coaxes Ada from his shoulders into his arms, then begins the arduous process of getting out of his bed to go and investigate. When he makes it out of the tangle of blankets, and then out of the bedroom, he scans the floor for Charles.

Instead, Q’s gaze trips over a pair of blood spattered oxfords stood in front of the couch, and he drags his eyes up to a spot just past Agent Bond’s shoulder. 

Both of them stand in silence for a long while, until Q manages to wrangle his tongue for long enough to say, “Bond? What are you doing here?”

The words stutter and lump through his throat, and he pants slightly. Bond’s head tips slightly, in what Q thinks might be concern, which is entirely unreasonable, given the amount of blood on him. On top of everything, the buoyant feeling in his actual stomach returns.

“Are you okay?” Bond asks, which is also unreasonable.

Q directs the fiercest glare he can muster at Bond’s right ear, the closest he’s going to get to Bond’s actually face today without screaming. He jabs a finger at Bond, and then at the couch, where Charles is watching both of them with an air of disdain.

Having mercy, Bond sits without asking any more questions. Q stalks towards the bathroom and finds the first aid kit he keeps in the cabinet. It’s not a field kit, which means it’s got some plasters, two rolls of crepe, a few antibac wipes, and a ‘guidance leaflet’. If Bond has anything that still need stitches, Q might just kill him himself rather than worry about keeping him alive.

No stitches are required, which is a small miracle. Most of the wounds look like they’ve been treated already; Q suspects the work of an improbably attractive woman who was somehow caught up in the Sirena business. There’s a long cut on Bond’s left forearm, but it’s only shallow, so Q just wraps it in a bandage, then unearths painkillers in the kitchen and checks the date. Assured that the tablets aren’t going to kill Bond any more than his injuries, Q pours out water and presses the glass and blister pack into Bond’s hands.

“Thanks,” Bond says.

Q shrugs, and turns the TV on with the sound off, subtitles running along the bottom of the screen. To his credit, Bond only gives the slightest of glances across, and doesn’t complain at all. Good. Q hasn’t got the spoons to explain. Not today.

* * *

In the morning, Q finds Charles curled up on Bond’s chest, where they’ve both fallen asleep on the couch. Q ignores them both, and goes to the kitchen to make himself a bowl of cereal. When he comes back, Bond’s awake, but hasn’t moved.

“I’ve only got Coco Pops,” Q says. “But you’re welcome to have some, if you want.”

They’d had takeaway, yesterday, for both lunch and dinner. Q tries not to rely on it, but Bond had insisted, and offered to pay, and Q had shrugged and pointed at what he wanted on the website. The rest of the time had been spent in companionable silence, watching all the old episodes of Mock the Week available on Netflix. Bond hadn’t even complained about watching a show based on current events roughly seven years after those events had been current.

“Have you got bread?”

“Kingsmill fifty-fifty.”

“Got a toaster?”

Q drags the toaster out from where it’s hiding behind the breadbin and plugs it in.

“I’d come and make it myself, but I know better than to disturb a cat.”

As if he knows Bond is using him as an excuse, Charles cracks one eye open, then unurls and springs down to the ground, stalking off towards the bedroom, where Ada is still sleeping. 

Bond looks after him, then drags himself to his feet, and joins Q in the kitchen.

* * *

Q manages to avoid talking to R about anything for an entire week, which he thinks should be rewarded. Especially as she keeps badgering him about Bond, who has turned up on three separate occasions to invite Q to lunch, or bring food to his office.

He breaks on Friday, when they’re working on the new high heels prototype. He has to assure her that he’s not secretly hiding having had a meltdown, or a shutdown, or even a panic attack, and then his brain catches up and realises he’s telling the truth. It’s not that he usually has such a reaction to losing contact with an agent he’s handling — if he did, it would be a nightmare, given their propensity for going off grid; it takes a certain type of person to be a double-oh, yes, but surely they were trained to take orders every once in a while — but, although Bond’s the worst for that sort of thing, last week had really thrown Q for a loop.

“I don’t even like him, I don’t think,” Q says, upon realising this. “He makes my stomach turn.”

It’s a reasonably good day, so he’s looking at R’s nose, and can see her eyes slant sideways at him. 

“How do you mean?”

Q presses a hand against the bottom of his ribcage and explains the bright, flipping sensation that Bond alone seems to trigger in him. 

When he finishes, R’s posture goes soft and slack. She turns around and leans against the workbench, with her arms crossed. Q sets down the hypodermic heel and straightens up, waiting for her response.

“Do you want me to give you information for you to work it out yourself, or do you want me to tell you?” she asks, tilting her head.

Most of the time, Q prefers to work through it himself. Alexithymia is irritating, but he’s been getting better at understanding his own emotions, something which he’s only achieved by painstakingly assessing everything and working through all the possibilities. At the present time, however, they need to finish sorting out Double-oh Three’s kit for her assignment in Monaco by Tuesday. That’s not going to happen if Q keeps getting distracted by Bond and inexplicable, incomprehensible emotions.

“Tell me, please.”

A small grin flickers on R’s face before she manages to control herself again. “I think you’ve got a crush on Agent Bond.”

Agent Bond chooses that moment to appear in Q-Branch, startling the few minions who haven’t become accustomed to it, yet.

The feeling springs up in Q’s stomach, immediately, only this time it’s accompanied by a burning sensation across his cheeks. Now that there’s a name for it, he’s painfully aware of what’s happening.

R, because she is just as much a menace as an excellent friend, laughs, and leaves him to the wolf, wandering off towards the kitchenette. 

It’s not that Q’s never noticed that Agent Bond is attractive. That’s always been quite evident. A blind person could work it out by the number and success of honeypot missions Bond has worked, both sanctioned and unsanctioned. Nor is Q’s sexuality a surprise; that was established very nicely in sixth form, even if Danny did turn out to be an awful boyfriend. 

_(Really, Danny was lucky Q had talked both of his brothers out of murder, because they had considered it rather too seriously for Q’s liking. Danny wasn’t a great person, but he didn’t deserve to be killed by perhaps the only two people Q knew who could get away with it._

_Besides, he’d done quite well himself, anyway, messing with Danny’s university applications on UCAS. It wouldn’t ruin his future — Q wasn’t mean enough to do that — but it would mean he wouldn’t make the Exeter rugby team, like he was always going on about._

_Q had a moment of feeling bad, but then he remembered half his year laughing and shouting slurs at him because Danny had panicked and outed Q in an attempt to deflect suspicion from himself. He was quite happy to fudge the application with that in mind.)_

Q stared as Bond came closer, his words lost for reasons far from the usual. Having Bond at his flat had been so simple, easy. They’d sat and watched telly and eaten takeaway and Bond hadn’t once argued or pushed for Q to talk. And, though Q had been wired and set for some sort of internal disaster, not once had he felt like exploding, in all the time Bond was there. In fact, by the time they called it a night, he’d half melted into the sofa.

Tipped rather towards Bond.

The heat in Q’s face doubles, just as Bond stops in front of him.

“Are you busy, Quartermaster?”

“He’s not,” R shouts from where she’s doing a bad job at making tea whilst watching everything play out.

Bond turns his head towards her, amusement pulling at the edges of his mouth. “Evening, R. How are things going with Double-oh Three?”

“Her kit’s coming along wonderfully, thanks,” R retorts, “Q’s been working on it, too.”

“But you can take a break, now, I hope,” Bond says, switching his attention back to Q. “There’s an italian restaurant across the river. If you’re not clocking off soon, you should at least get some food.”

Italian food is safe food, good food, and Q accepts, on the condition that he can just finish a few things up here, first. Bond agrees, and says he’ll wait in the lobby.

As soon as he’s out of the door, Q turns on R.

“Double-oh Three?”

This time, it’s R’s turn to go red. “Agent Carter is a perfectly nice woman who brings back her equipment more than anyone else in the Double-oh programme,” she says, as though that is all the explanation Q needs as to why she favours her. 

Actually, he can understand it, even if his own crush is the worst of all of them at the same task.

“Anyway.” R finishes making her tea and returns to the workbench, where they’ve done all they can do today. “What things were you expecting to finish up, or was that just an excuse to freak out without Agent Bond here to see.”

Q sputters, and R laughs, and then she and Sama both bully him out into the lift, wishing him luck and safe sex. The last one comes from R, of course, and Q’s face blazes, hot and uncomfortable. Things will not be going that far any time soon, if he has anything to say about it.

* * *

Five outings later — three for meals, one to the park, and one to the Tate Britain — Q arrives at work in the morning, sinks down into his office chair, and lets his head drop onto the table. Then he does it a few more times, because it shifts the fog around his brain. 

He keeps doing it until a hand slides in between his desk and his head, so he hits a soft palm instead of the wood. He bares his teeth at the palm, the static clouding back into his brain, again.

When he twists to look up at the newcomer, however, it’s not R, like he expected.

“R sent me in,” Bond says, by way of explanation.

Q sets his mouth, and pulls up Notepad on his laptop, jabbing a finger at the screen once he’s typed ‘please ask her to come in here.’

Bond frowns, but goes to get her, and Q takes the opportunity to hit his head on the desk once more. Then he rummages through his draws to find a fidget pen he’d made up alongside the exploding pen that Bond was not to find out about under any circumstances.

“What’s up?” R says, appearing at the door with Bond over her shoulder.

Q screws up his face, and then realises he has to put the pen down to use his hands. He switches to bouncing his leg, and signs, “I don’t know how this works, I don’t know what’s happening, and I don’t like it.”

Bond frowns. R steps further into the office and leans against the back wall, so Q has to turn his chair fully away from the desk to look at her.

“What do you mean by ‘this’?”

Q’s eyes only tick towards the door for half a second, but he can feel his face heat, and he flicks two fingers between himself and Bond as quickly as he can. “Us.”

“Have you considered asking?”

“Great idea, and what words do you want me to use?” Q’s hands are sharp, and he glares at R, who just rolls her eyes.

“Write a letter or something.” She crosses her arms. “We went over this with Lucas: communication is important.”

The bouncing leg slows. R is right. Q draws a circle over his chest with his fist: “Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” R says. They’d established several years ago that telling him not to say sorry didn’t help matters, back when they were both new hires recording data for other people’s experiments. “Do you want me to keep him busy while you write, or are you okay with him here.”

“He can stay, if he doesn’t watch my screen until I’m done.”

R translates for Bond. 

“I can go if you rather I come back later,” Bond says, but Q reaches out for him. 

“Be patient, don’t be a dick, and if you hurt him, we have a literal arsenal at our disposal.” With that, R shoots a wicked grin at Bond, and stalks back out of the office, closing the door behind her.

Q smiles and tips his head towards the door, tapping his head in a sort of salute, until he remembers that Bond can’t understand him calling R ‘dangerous’ in BSL. He lets his shoulders fall, but refrains from dropping his head again. 

Bond steps in closer, and Q is brave enough to wrap his arms around his waist, resting his head on Bond’s hip. Bond’s arms fold around his shoulders, and the two of them hold on for a moment.

One of their hearts is beating overspeed, either Bond’s in his hip, or Q’s in his ear.

Communication. Q’s supposed to be good at that, running communications for various agents, with a preference towards Bond. Somehow anything more personal than how to best evacuate a collapsing building whilst being chase by armed guards eludes him, most of the time. Now, however, he really should talk to Bond. Or write to him, if his tongue insists on being uncooperative.

He points at the couch, and Bond follows the direction without question. Q can see the moment he shifts into sniper-ready patience, and imagines that, for anyone else, it would be terrifying. It’s beginning to become something of a collection: the amount of people who would be terrifying to most, but pose no danger to him. Or a habit, learned from dealing with his brothers since birth.

The notepad window is still up on his screen, the cursor blinking at him, and Q sighs but puts his fingers back on the keyboard.

There’s a lot of things he wants to say. To start with, he vomits his brain in black type onto the page, then sets about formatting it in a way that makes sense beyond barely comprehensible stream of consciousness. When it’s done, it’s more formal than Q would have liked, but it’s not getting any better.

Even the smallest hesitation makes Bond’s hand shift towards Q.

Q nods at him, and kicks his chair away from the desk, making space for Bond. Bond moves around the desk in cautious steps, but Q doesn’t flinch, just gestures to the screen.

Despite the formatting, the letter is a little rambling, about how Q doesn’t really quite understand dating, and are they dating? Or are they just friends? Or are they boyfriends, partners, what? What do they do now? There’s one line about Q’s autism, because more than a few people have turned on him after finding out about it, and also because he wants to be able to explain how it affects him, personally, when he has the use of spoken word.

Q watches Bond’s shoulders as he reads the screen, but he can’t read the lines of the suit jacket. His intestines knot themselves and unknot themselves, and Q’s felt that often enough to know it’s nervousness. Nerves in his intestines, to go with the crush in his stomach.

After several long moments, Bond straightens up and looks at Q.

“I was under the impression that I was taking you on dates,” he says. “Does that match your assessment of the situation?”

Q nods, and wraps a hand around his wrist, to avoid scratching his arms.

“I would like to continue taking you on dates.” Bond keeps his tone soft and even, and the lines at the corners of his mouth are soft, too. “Would you like to continue to join me on dates?”

Again, Q nods, a breathless sort of feeling bubbling up from the crush in his stomach.

Bond shoves one hand into his pocket and leans against the table. He’s all soft, in the way that not many people get to see him. Q’s seen this before, at his flat, in the park, almost in restaurants, when the dining rooms aren’t too busy. 

“Would you be my boyfriend?”

Q scowls — it sounds so childish — but he’s blushing, too, because yes, he would. He manages a whispered ‘yes’, and then there’s a heartbeat of fear, when he thinks Bond is going to kiss him without any warning.

Bond sees it, he must see it, and he makes a formal little bow. It makes Q’s cheeks burn even more, but he grins.

“May I kiss you?” Bond asks, and Q’s response in the affirmative is stronger this time, and then he doesn’t have to worry about talking at all, because their lips are fitted together and Q doesn’t need R to tell him want he’s feeling, now.

This is happiness.

* * *

* * *

[1] Destra: right[return to text]

[2] "Thank you, beautiful."..."Can I have help finding my room?"[return to text]

[3] "Of course."..."Follow me."[return to text]

[4] "What?"[return to text]

[5] "Nothing."[return to text]

[6] "Hello, sir."..."How are you?"[return to text]

[7] "What are you drinking?"[return to text]

[8] "Whiskey, please"[return to text]

[9] "A whiskey for this man."[return to text]

[10] "There's nothing better than Dutch courage."..."God, women are...."[return to text]

[11] "I have a work meeting tomorrow."..."If it doesn't go well...."[return to text]

**Author's Note:**

> A selection of keep notes attatched to the google doc in which I've been writing this whole series:  
> \--I have opinions on the phrase 'new and improved': it's a valid combination of words, stop trying to tell me something can't be both new and improved  
> \--I'm bloody well going to make excuses to use italian otherwise there was no point in learning it and I am therefore determined to cram it into anywhere that halfway makes sense  
> \--Where was my work experience in Sorrento - Grand Hotel Flora? Yes. Can I shoehorn in Pizzeria da Franco's incredible metre long pizzas? Unfortunately, no. The view of new years' fireworks going of in front of Mount Vesuvius was fucking incredible  
> \--The drugs ring in Sorrento is called Sirena because apparently the Sirens came from nearby and the ruins on Punto Campanella are a temple Ulysses built to Minerva after his crew plugged their ears with wax (sirens are half bird not half fish pls i need more people to remember this)


End file.
